Chapter 7: Beneath the Surface

colour pencil sketch by Chaiga T Cheska

Nix felt different, not like he had felt before when meditating on the deck of the Mistwing, when he had tried to become one with the pain, as his mother had taught him long ago, breathing into it until pain and self became indistinguishable. Instead, as he had begun to feel the presence of the creature in the river hunting him, he had expected his recently awakened natural predator, Tiorian Lightweaver, instincts to surface, to rise snarling and defensive, all fangs and readiness. Still, instead, it was as if he’d been given a choice of how to behave with the creature that stalked him, a fork in the path appearing before him with perfect clarity, and Nix had known immediately that confrontation was not the answer, that teeth and claws would only breed more violence.

He knew in that moment that meditation was the connection to all things, especially this river creature. As Nix breathed deeply, releasing tension and pain from his body like smoke escaping through an open window, he then breathed in connection, drawing the world into his lungs. He understood that this river creature was terribly alone, its loneliness a weight that pressed against his consciousness like a cold hand. Behind his eyes as he drew in these deep breaths, he saw strands of coloured light all around him in the darkness and quiet of his mind, a vast web of living connections, so that he saw each coloured strand thrum with its own pigmentation of vibrancy, the individual life force.

From the market-goers, strands of gold and amber and rust-red, pulsing with worry and curiosity and the small hungers of daily life. From the boats and walkway, strands of deep brown and weathered grey, patient and enduring as stone. From the great Emaris river, strands of silver-blue and green-white, ancient and flowing and impossibly vast, a consciousness older than memory. From the creature that observed him curiously in the river, a strand of deep indigo shot through with loneliness like veins of silver in dark stone. And even from himself, a strand that shifted between colours, purple and green and storm-grey, still learning what it meant to be.

Nix eased into this understanding of all things that lived around him, surrendering to the vision, and still with eyes closed, he reached out with his hands into the air around him. His fingers began to delicately and intricately dance in the air currents, moving like a weaver at an invisible loom, so that he could see behind his closed eyelids the coloured strands around him. He was able to touch these strands gently, with reverence for all the lives they echoed and represented, feeling the pulse of each existence.

Using his Lightweaver magic, Nix used his fingers to request from each strand to unknot tense feelings of fear or loneliness or anger, asking permission rather than demanding, offering release rather than forcing change. Some strands of the market-goers relaxed and unwound their fear, anger, and loneliness, like tight muscles finally allowed to rest, and the air felt a greater sense of peace, which then gave Nix a clearer view of the strands of pain coming from the creature below him in the river. He felt it watch him with a sort of “knowing,” as if inviting Nix to find its own strands to untangle, waiting to see if this strange boy-creature would understand the silent plea.

Nix tilted his head and took another deep breath, relaxing his shoulders as if settling into warm water, and looking harder at the creature below. With his fingers, he asked permission to untangle the creature’s pain, the gesture as gentle as stroking a frightened animal. He felt the acquiescence from the creature reverberate through him like a struck chord, resonating in his bones and blood. With careful deliberation, treating each strand as precious as spun glass, Nix found the strands of pain.

As he untangled these delicate strands, teasing apart knots that had tightened over years or perhaps centuries, he began to really see what this creature was. Nix found himself gasping in delight at the beautiful sea dragon that now looked up at him from beneath the gently thrumming Emaris, its scales shimmering like mother-of-pearl, its eyes ancient and wise, yet terribly, achingly lonely. The river’s delight was also palpable, washing over him in waves of approval, as if relieved to at last know that Nix understood the sacred language of the river and all her beings, the grammar of connection that bound all living things.

The magic within Nix, still green and uncertain, trembled at the threshold of his will like a young bird preparing for its first flight. He reached for it, through his own pain, the hollow in his chest echoing with old ache, and with a concentrated breath, began to shape runes of argent light for the market with the sea dragon and Emaris as his witnesses. They unfurled from his fingertips, delicate, precise, each a gleaming sigil born of need and instinct rather than taught knowledge. The spellwork wove outward in a radiant lattice, curling and spiralling about each vendor and wanderer, enfolding the crowd in an intricate shield that shimmered with an intention of love for all, protection born not from fear but from fierce tenderness.

Where the runes passed, the very motes of air seemed awash with starlight, tiny constellations drifting between breath and breath, market stalls and pennants casting refracted gleams on anxious faces as the spell’s protection settled over all who stood within its reach, gentle as falling snow, strong as woven steel.

From across the churning water, Nix beheld his friends at the railing of the Mistwing. He saw their anxious faces, Oren’s jaw tight with worry, Tavik’s hand on his knife, Bran’s eyes wide with concern, and breathed deep again, his breathing taking on the same rhythm of the gentle waves of the Emaris, becoming one with the ancient pulse. With the river’s help, Nix sent calm through the waves to his friends on the Mistwing, letting them know everything was going to be all right now, the reassurance travelling through water and air like a song carried on the wind.

A slight smile crossed Nix’s face as he saw their faces and postures relax, tension bleeding from shoulders, hands unclenching, breath coming easier.

He pressed his eyes shut tighter, the pain in his chest now a hard and vital core at the centre of himself, no longer something to flee but something to use. He did not flee it, but drew it inward, folding it into his magic, letting it root him in the moment’s necessity. Through that crucible, through the fire of his own suffering transmuted into power, Nix reached further, feeling the pulse of the river and the sea dragon coiled beneath, vast and lonely and hoping for the first time in long years that it might be truly seen.

Compassion welled within him for this world he inhabited, rising like a tide, as if all these fourteen years of his life, he was just now waking into life, into this body, into the miracle of existence. He felt in awe of the beauty of life all around him, so much to be cherished, each strand precious and irreplaceable, even the small and broken ones.

Guided by that insight, by that sudden flowering of understanding, Nix summoned the river’s surface to stillness, weaving his runes anew until the water became a glassy pane, smooth as polished silver, perfect as a mirror held up to the sky. The dragon’s silhouette, sinuous and immense, emerged beneath, its eyes luminous within the mirror’s frame, reflecting light that seemed to come from within rather than without. Nix, breathing slowly and deeply, let his last remaining human-like defences drop, walls falling like autumn leaves, and offered a silent invitation. Friendship and acceptance were carried in the openness of his spirit, in the vulnerability of his unguarded heart.

For one suspended instant, the dragon looked up through the planks, meeting Nix’s look with unfathomable depth, eyes that had seen the river’s birth and would see its end. In that exchange, understanding blossomed, a fragile accord kindled by pain, courage, and the hope of connection, the recognition of one lonely soul by another.

The wind, still carrying the warmth of the afternoon, held the stillness of the moment as the Mistwing’s crew clustered on the deck, their faces set in lines of incredulity and wonder, disbelief warring with the evidence of their own eyes. Oren stood at the prow, flanked by Bran and Tavik, with Ingrid’s quick breath sharp beside them, Bo’s hands clenched upon the rail until his knuckles went white, and Captain Sten’s attention fixed unwaveringly upon the spectacle unfolding before them, his weathered face slack with awe.

“What in the name of the old gods...” Bo breathed.

“Is that...” Ingrid’s voice trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

From the churned river, the great sea dragon rose, a vision wrought of ancient myth and undimmed power, its body adorned in scales that shimmered with river greens and argent silvers, each scale catching the light individually so that its entire form seemed to ripple with captured rainbows.

“By all that’s holy,” Captain Sten whispered.

“It’s beautiful,” Ingrid said, her voice filled with wonder and emotion.

Each ripple of its sinewy frame sent flashes of light scattering, painting the afternoon sky with fragments of emerald and silver, turning the ordinary day into something from old songs. Its horns, curling and elegant as carved ivory, framed a countenance both majestic and strange, beautiful in a way that made the heart ache, as it towered above the solitary figure of Nix, dwarfing the boy who somehow did not seem small beside it.

Unaware of the marvel unfurling beyond their stalls, wrapped in the soft radiance of Nix’s protective spell, the shoppers and market sellers remained cocooned, their lives untouched by the grandeur now trembling upon the river’s threshold, going about their business as if nothing had changed, as if the world had not just shifted on its axis.

The sea dragon, immense and wondrous, lowered its great horned head, turning this way and that to study the boy with eyes deep as midnight pools, flickering with inquisitive light that spoke of vast intelligence. There was no hint of malice in its posture, only a profound curiosity, as though the ancient beast sought to decipher the fragile strand that bound Nix to the world, to understand what this small creature was that could speak the old language.

Nix, moved by a sudden and gentle awe that filled him like water filling a cup, extended one trembling hand, palm up in offering. His fingers, slender and pale blue as winter ice, brushed the creature’s radiant snout, the contact sending an echo of pain and understanding between them, memories flowing like shared blood.

The dragon, sensitive to the boy’s suffering, feeling the hollow where flesh should be, flattened its ears in a gesture not of fear, but of kinship and acknowledgement, recognising pain because it too had known pain. Its nostrils flared, breath washing in cool waves over Nix’s face, smelling of deep water and ancient places, and it dipped its head with deliberate grace, inviting the boy closer with the trust of one who has decided to believe.

With a steadying breath, feeling his heart hammer against his ribs, Nix climbed onto the dragon’s back.

The scales beneath Nix felt alive, warm and cool at once, a layering of ancient river song and memory, each scale humming with its own note in a vast symphony. The dragon arched its neck, coiling sinuously, preparing for the dive.

In a swirling rush, the dragon launched itself and Nix into the waiting river. The water parted around them in a glistening vortex, sending droplets scattering like jewels flung from a careless hand, each one catching the sun and holding it briefly before falling back to join the greater whole.

The crew watched, petrified and entranced, as glimpses of Nix and the dragon flashed beneath the Mistwing, shapes moving through the clear water like shadows of great birds passing overhead. Nix, holding his breath, his lungs burning but his mind clear, reached for the latticework of runic wards woven under the hull of the Mistwing, the protective magic he had placed three days past after the creature’s attack. With careful purpose, treating the magic as gently as he had treated the dragon’s pain, he trailed his fingers through the luminous script, unravelling its pattern strand by strand, allowing the protective magic to gently fade into the river’s silken ripples, returning the borrowed power to its source. The wards had served their purpose, keeping danger at bay, but now they were no longer needed. This creature meant no harm.

Then, in a surge of liquid brilliance that sent waves sloshing against the hull, the dragon breached the water’s surface upon the far side of the Mistwing, scales blazing with refracted light, water streaming from its body in sheets of silver. With effortless delicacy, moving with the care of something ancient, handling something precious, it deposited Nix upon the deck, droplets cascading from his hair and garments, pooling around his feet in spreading circles.

For a span, the deck of the Mistwing stood frozen, figures motionless as statues, breath suspended between disbelief and awe, the moment stretching like honey poured from a jar. Then the moment shattered.

“That was incredible!” Bran said, his eyes wide.

Nix smiled at his friend and looked around at everyone’s shocked faces, taking in their wide eyes and open mouths, their faces pale with wonder. He then looked down at the puddle he was creating, water spreading across the deck in a dark stain. With his fingers that arced with blue light, delicate as spider silk, he wove the water from the growing puddle at his feet, and from his clothes and hair, into fine droplets that danced in the air like liquid jewels. He returned them in a tumbling glittering cascade back over the railing into the waiting Emaris, the water falling in a perfect arc, leaving his clothes dry as if he’d not just been submerged in the river, as if the water itself had never touched him.

Bran goggled at Nix and stammered, his healer’s mind trying to catalogue what he’d just witnessed and failing utterly. “H... How did you do that?!”

Nix just grinned, the expression bright as sunrise, and said, “I understand now what it means to be alive in this world.”

The sea dragon, its scales shimmering with spectral light that seemed to emanate from some inner fire, regarded them each in turn with the gravity of ages before sinking once more beneath the river’s surface, its descent as graceful as a swan diving. In its wake, the water rippled with reflected brilliance, the beast’s immense coils looping languidly around the vessel in what might have been a caress, or a promise, before it disappeared into the green depths.

Tavik unfroze and finally found his voice, though it came out higher than usual. “You absolute lunatic. You utter, complete madman.”

Nix blinked, genuinely confused by the accusation. “I... what?”

“You just rode a sea dragon. Underwater. Without telling anyone. Without any plan. Just... decided to go for a swim with a mythical creature.”

“It seemed like the right thing to do,” said Nix, smiling up at a flustered Tavik with the innocent confidence of one who has acted rightly and knows it.

“It seemed,” Tavik’s voice was climbing, each word louder than the last, “like the right thing. To ride. A dragon. Wow, just…wow, Nix!”

Oren stepped forward, grinning down at his friend. “Nix! That was incredible!”

Captain Sten and Bo, along with Ingrid, looked from one to the other, clearly trying to process what had just occurred, their worldview shifting to accommodate this new reality.

“So this dragon?” Bo asked carefully, his voice measured despite the tremor beneath. “Is that creature still a threat?”

Nix’s soft laugh brought warmth to the moment, genuine and unforced. “No threat. It wished only to be seen, to be acknowledged. I think it’s a friend now, if anything. A guardian, perhaps.”

Questions poured forth, about Nix’s magic, his transformation, and the meditation, voices overlapping in their eagerness. Yet Nix, still thrumming with the thrill of his new dragon friend, the memory of connection singing in his blood, met their curiosity with a steady look. His attention was drawn to Oren, Tavik, and Bran, and his tone carried both challenge and affection, the voice of one who had discovered something precious and wished to share it. “You’re all so interested in my gifts. Why haven’t you three explored your own? You’re half-elven. There’s more to your legacy, and you’re not even curious?”

The revelation spread through the crew like ripples on a moonlit pool, expanding outward in waves. Ingrid’s eyes widened, her hand flying to her lips. Captain Sten’s weathered features drew tight in silent contemplation, his brows drawing together as he reassessed everything he thought he knew. Bo looked from one brother to the next, as though something elusive might suddenly reveal itself in their features, some sign he had missed all this time.

Bran’s mouth fell open, his jaw dropping like a gate with broken hinges. “But we don’t have magic like you, Nix...”

“Your observation of the world,” Nix said, his voice gentle but insistent. “The way you move. The patience you have for delicate work. I’ve been watching.”

Oren, Tavik, and Bran exchanged bewildered glances, the weight of unspoken questions pressing between them like a physical force.

Oren, eldest and steadfast, cleared his throat, the sound rough. “Our mother... I remember little. She died when Bran was born. I never knew she was an elf until you brought this up in the forest. I don’t truly understand what that means for any of us.”

Tavik’s voice was quieter than usual, stripped of its usual confidence. “Father never spoke of it. We always thought... I don’t know what we thought.”

Bran looked down at his hands, turning them over as though seeing them for the first time, studying the lines of his palms. “It’s really true...”

A new quiet fell, not of magic, but of memory and unfinished longing amongst kin, the silence of things too long unspoken finally coming to light. Nix’s expression softened, compassion bright in his look like candlelight in darkness. “I can help, if you wish.”

The offer hung in the air, simple and sincere, a gift freely given.

Oren looked at his brothers, reading their faces. Tavik’s jaw was set, but his eyes held curiosity, hunger even. Bran nodded slowly, hope beginning to kindle.

“We’d like that,” Oren said at last, speaking for all of them.

Nix turned, his steps surprisingly light despite his recent adventure, despite the hollow in his chest that still ached with every breath and moved towards the passenger hut. At his touch, the door swung open and remained ajar as he slipped inside, a silent invitation cast into the uncertain day, a doorway offered to those who would walk through it.

Ingrid stepped closer to Bran, her voice soft with wonder. “Half-elven,” she said. “That’s... I had no idea.”

Bran looked at her, really looked at her for perhaps the first time without immediately panicking, and for once found words that didn’t tangle themselves into knots. “Neither did we. It’s strange, learning something so fundamental about yourself.”

“It must be.” She smiled at him, a genuine and warm expression reaching her eyes. “But it doesn’t change who you are. You’re still the best cook on this river, and probably the worst at tying knots despite claiming otherwise.”

A surprised laugh escaped him, startled from his chest. “I never claimed to be good at knots.”

“You offered to help with mine.”

“That was... I was being polite.”

“You were being terrible at it.” But her tone was teasing, fond even, with an undercurrent of something that made his heart skip.

Tavik, watching this exchange with the attention of a hawk, caught Oren’s eye. They shared a look of pure brotherly satisfaction, the kind that needed no words.

“Maybe there’s hope for him yet,” Tavik murmured, low enough that only Oren could hear.

“Maybe.”

Inside the passenger hut, Nix waited, feeling that he, himself, had grown in his heart and in his soul, stretched into a larger shape than he had been that morning. A weight of anxiety that he felt he had known all his life seemed at last to have faded, making the world seem clearer around him, colours brighter, sounds sharper, filling him with an intense gratitude for this life and those he loved, gratitude so fierce it was almost painful.

Nix sat himself cross-legged in the middle of the floor, his posture straight, his shoulders relaxed, settling into the position with the ease of long practice. The runes on his skin had dimmed to their usual faint glow, but something about him seemed different, more settled, as though his encounter with the dragon had aligned something within him that had been crooked before, straightened something bent.

The three brothers filed in, Oren closing the door behind them with a soft click. For a moment, no one spoke. Then Tavik broke the silence with characteristic bluntness.

“So, how does this work? Do we suddenly sprout pointy ears and start speaking in riddles?”

“Pointed ears might come later, I think.” Nix smiled from his position on the floor, his expression warm with affection. “Your mother’s blood runs through you. Elven senses, elven grace, and elven connection to the natural world. It’s all there, sleeping, waiting for you to acknowledge it.”

Oren settled on the floor across from Nix, folding his legs beneath him. “And you can wake it?”

“I can show you where to look. The rest is up to you.”

He gestured for them to sit. Tavik and Bran sat with Oren and Nix, looking expectant, nervous and a little suspicious too, three faces showing three variations of uncertainty. Tavik, feeling silly, began to smirk, but was cut short by a fierce look from Oren that could have frozen water.

“Close your eyes,” Nix said softly, his voice taking on the quality of ritual, of old teaching. “Listen. Not with your ears, not yet. Listen with whatever sense tells you when rain is coming, or when someone is watching you from behind. That sense. Find it.”

The brothers obeyed, their breathing gradually slowing, synchronising like three instruments finding the same key.

“Your mother,” Nix continued, his voice barely above a whisper, hardly more than breath given shape, “she would have moved through the world differently than humans do. Everything would have been sharper, clearer. The world would have sung to her, and she would have sung back. That song is in your blood. You have to remember the melody.”

Minutes passed in silence, broken only by the creak of the ship and the distant murmur of the river. Then Oren’s breath caught, a sharp inhalation of surprise.

“I can... hear it. The river. Not just the sound of it, but... its voice. Like you said earlier, it’s singing.” There was a mix of disbelief and wonder in Oren’s voice, as if he’d just discovered he could fly.

“Good.” Nix’s smile was warm, proud as a teacher watching a student grasp a difficult concept. “What’s it saying?”

“It’s...” Oren’s brow furrowed in concentration, trying to translate something beyond words into language. “Content. Moving south. Carrying us. It’s... pleased to carry us.”

Tavik’s eyes snapped open, wide with shock. “I feel it too. But not just the river. Everything. The wood of the ship is alive. Old. Remembering the tree it used to be.” He looked at his hands in wonder, flexing his fingers as if they belonged to someone else. “How did I never notice this before?”

“Because no one told you to look,” Nix said.

Bran remained still, eyes closed, but his expression had shifted into something peaceful, a serenity settling over his features like snow falling gently to earth. “The herbs in my bag. I can sense them. Their properties, their potential. It’s like... like I can feel what they want to heal, what they’re meant for.” His eyes opened, bright with discovery, shining like polished stones. “This is what mother saw. This is how she moved through the world.”

The three brothers looked at each other, then at Nix, wonder and gratitude mingled in their expressions, their faces transformed by this new sight.

“There’s more,” Nix said, his voice gentle. “Much more. But this is a beginning. You’ll learn the rest as needed. Your blood remembers. You have to trust it.”

Oren reached over and gripped Nix’s shoulder, his hand firm and warm. “Thank you.”

“You’re helping me find out who I am. Let me help you with the same,” Nix said, his words simple and true.

The moment held, precious and profound, a jewel caught in time, before Tavik broke it with his usual irreverence.

“So now that we’re all magical and enlightened, can someone explain why Bran turns into a stammering fool every time Ingrid looks at him?”

Bran’s face went scarlet, red creeping up from his collar like rising water. “I do not!”

“You absolutely do.”

Bran attempted to shove Tavik, which didn’t work because Tavik was bigger and just stared back at Bran, smirking as Oren sighed and rolled his eyes.

There ensued a brief, inelegant scuffle between Bran and Tavik, both yelping and dodging each other until Oren, losing patience, gave a long-suffering sigh, clambered to his feet, crossed over to his scuffling brothers, and lowered himself until he was pinning both of them to the ground, while giving the bewildered Nix an almost apologetic smile as his brothers laughingly struggled to get out from under him.

“Are you sure you want these two as family, Nix?” Oren asked sarcastically, holding Nix’s gaze and not reacting to Bran and Tavik trying to shove him off. “Because this spectacle is likely to be the first of many.”

Their laughter filled the cabin, warm and alive.

Outside, the river carried them onward, towards the Ravines and whatever awaited them there, the current steady and sure. But for now, they were themselves, discovering who they’d always been beneath the surface, learning to see with new eyes the world they thought they knew.

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I’ve been under the weather this week, so I haven’t been able to create illustrations for chapter 7 and its extras, but who knows, maybe I’ll add a drawing at a later date.